


One Day in Burgundy

by a_different_equation



Series: Johnlock Around The World [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cooking, Emotional Roller Coaster, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Food Porn, France (Country), Great Hiatus, Honeymoon, Introspection, M/M, Poetic, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, References to CMBYN, Road Trips, Sensuality, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock Speaks French, Shower Sex, Songfic, The Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes, True Love, Victorian pornography, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-25 18:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10769691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: While being on their honeymoon in Burgundy, Sherlock tells John the story of his sexual awakening. A tale about an unexpected road trip, French cuisine, a violin concert at ‘The End of the World’, a visit of an old church, oh, and Victorian Pornography. And like all good stories, it starts and ends in bed.Afterwards, John had seen the country with new eyes. Oh, he had fallen in love with Burgundy the moment he had set eyes on it. Nevertheless, to fall in love is not being in love.Love needs time, it is a process; now, the place is transformed.This land has saved his husband, John knows that now. Without the day-off, the one day, he might not have survived it. He might have been out alive, but he would have been dead inside.Living is more than breathing, walking, talking; here, he can see it now, he learned that there is more to life, and more to see, to touch, to listen, to taste, to smell, and yes, to share and to show.





	1. All good things happen in bed, surely.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello & Welcome & Salut!
> 
> I have a confession to make: I love Johnlock AND Burgundy (France). It might be crazy but I wanted to combine those two things. We don't know where Sherlock had been during hiatus in all the details... so he might have been there, right? And if only for one day... that changed everything. That's the plot of "One Day in Burgundy".
> 
> What do you need to know? 
> 
> Burgundy is a rural part/region in the heart of France (Europe). I hope that after reading "One Day in Burgundy", you'll know a bit more about it, maybe fall in love with it like I did all those years ago, and who knows maybe you'll visit it one day.    
> There're always notes at the end of the chapters to give you some further information, so that you're not lost in translation or something (THANK SO MUCH to my two betas, pipmer & links - without them, mon dieu! You don't want to know how OFTEN I read on Google Docs: "That's not actual an English word... but there might be a French one." They're magic & also good friends. MERCI!). 
> 
> The idea of "one day off" comes from the French novella 'L'échappée belle' which means something like "the great escape". Basically, it's the concept of a spontaneous roadtrip - for one day - and what it sets into motion.  
> MIKA's 'L'amour fait ce qu'il veut' is the soundtrack for "One Day in Burgundy" which is about a man who recalls what love made him do which is everyting... and that he would go to the Ends of the Earth if necessary. Oh, and where do you think Sherlock would go for John... In this fic? 'Le Bout du Monde' (= The End of the Earth). Also, Hiatus story. Basically, MIKA's Special Edition of 'No Place in Heaven' is the soundtrack for "One Day in Burgundy". Including the GAYEST, 'Good Guys' which quotes Oscar Wilde in its chorus and chants all the queer icons in its lyrics and basically asks where all the gay heroes have gone to because, you know, representation matters. MIKA is an openly gay singer-songwriter, musician, judge on French X-Factor, and just... fabulous.  
> Oh, and "One Day in Burgundy" is influenced by 'Call Me By Your Name'; if you spot a line from the book or two or more... it's intentional.  
> Lastly, "One Day in Burgundy" quotes heavily from Townsend's 'The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes', the landmark ACD pastiche. Which is exactly what it promised in its title. 
> 
> To sum it up: I wanted to write a love letter to this beautiful country, to those two men in love, and made it as queer as possible. 
> 
> Care to come along? As Gandalf reminds us all: "Adventures are good for you."
> 
> ade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are on their honeymoon in Burgundy (France). It's a lazy morning in bed --- what better place for some tales from the past?

Allons! whoever you are come travel with me! 

[...]

I give you my love more precious than money,  
I give you myself before preaching or law;  
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?  
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live? 

(Walt Whitman: _Song of the Open Road_ )

 

 

**Burgundy (France). Present Day.**

 

“Do you know John, when I had my sexual awakening?”

“Your what?”

“Sexual awakening, John. You’re a doctor and he just had sex, if I might add, how can you blush now?”

“Oh, hush, Sherlock.”

“...”

“You’re going to tell me now, you git?”

“...”

“Sherlock, love.”

“...”

“Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“Okay...”

“...”

“How is it possible that you can talk about _that_ but blush about _this_?”

“Very eloquent, John.  _This_ and _that_. I suspect that you mean _sex_ and _love_ , am I right.”

“Oh shut up, _my love_. And tell me about your _sexual awakening_.”

“It happened here, in this exact bed, some years ago...”


	2. Oh, Victorian Pornography!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While being in France during ‘The Great Hiatus’, Sherlock Holmes discovers Victorian Pornography. The starting point of an Unexpected Journey: “The Sexual Awakening of Sherlock Holmes”.

**SOME YEARS EARLIER...**

 

Tonight’s bolthole in the heart of France is another old building whose stairs creak when Sherlock goes up to his room for the night. Sadly, here, the steps are not twenty-seven. There is no joke about a second bedroom upstairs, if it is needed, either. All that will await him is another empty room.

It has been 95 days since his “death”. Since then Sherlock Holmes has tracked down between 20 and 35 of Moriarty’s men. His estimated guess is that it will be approximately two years until he can finally go home.

Sherlock avoids the inn owner. He sneaks in when she is in deep conversation with a couple. It is too much of an effort to greet them with a cheering “ _Salut_ ” and to plaster a smile on his face tonight. The new guests are students, backpackers from England; how they ended up here, Sherlock may have deduced but he is too tired. It is probably some tedious, normal story anyway; some inside-tip that promised potential hits on social media because “OMG! I survived it.”

In another life, or, if their life had followed another path, one that had not ended with saying Goodbye to John, Sherlock could have tweet about this inn; or, John would blog some horror story that turned out to be so funny anyway because he would probably put some film reference in the title already that everyone except Sherlock would get. If John and he had visited this inn for a case, it would have been a hit story. Now, however, Sherlock can only hope that a hit man does not kill John or himself.

The inn owner is a lesbian and her partner is the chef here. Sherlock can barely avoid rolling his eyes when he passes the photographs of the staff that are hanging without any apparent system on the walls up to the rooms. Some have frames, some not; all need dusting. Sherlock’s mind is in overload, and he is not thinking about Dartmoor.

Instead, he is confident in his assessment that the wallpaper has witnessed two world wars.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s room for the next two nights is on the first floor.

It is next to the toilet, which is a plus, and next to the stairs, which is what it is; it’s second nature now to memorize the map with the emergency plan (and to come up with some alternative routes). The room is small: one single bed, a wardrobe, a table and two chairs; not even a television, a telephone or a bible are to be found (not that Sherlock misses them). There is only a washbasin in the room. The toilets are on the floor, the showers are outside.

 

All windows are so thin that Sherlock can hear the rain like a drum hitting the glass.

 

When Sherlock lies on the far too narrow bed, he investigates the source for a distinctive smell. He checks the cushion and instantly, he kicks it away. Evidently, the cushion kept the form because there are no feathers left, instead some green-grey faded _thing_ whose origin Sherlock can only guess with no proper laboratory at hand.  All he can say is that it would fall into the category that John would demand to take out to the bin  _immediately._ Probably, John would stand military-straight in the entry to their kitchen, non-verbally addressing the issue and if Sherlock did not react _immediately_ , would clear his throat, which would be his last warning before his flatmate would lose his temper.

John would say that he had had bad days. Oh, and how bad are both their days now…

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock lasts all of five minutes that feel like ages in bed.

It is not all that late yet, ten o’clock or so, and Sherlock might need some rest and wishes for one night of good sleep, but his body and mind are still on “ready to fight”-mode.

Therefore, he gets up and starts moving around like a caged animal. After two tours, he knows which wooden floorboard to avoid so not to alarm the other houseguests. Alternatively, he knows which one to choose when he is particularly annoyed.

He hates the colour of the rug. For a second, he toys with the idea of removing it. However, Sherlock knows that the rug muffles his movements a bit.

Back in the old days, Sherlock had examined patterns for fun and for work aka being a consulting detective. To expand his index and his knowledge, to lecture the Yard and to impress John, to experiment, to get a loving scolding by Mrs Hudson or to rouse Mycroft, all this was his working ground. Sure, Sherlock had not lured John in under false premise; what they had done in their months of partnership, professional and private, was dangerous. Sherlock’s London was its own battlefield. Sure, Moriarty had been a master criminal but danger had been waiting for them constantly in the dark and dirty alleys of their beloved city. One step too far could have had fatal consequences.

On the surface, it looks as if nothing changed.

Running, observing, examining, deducing, solving cases.

Here, now, Sherlock has not even report back to Greg.

Sure, Sherlock has Mycroft to report to, but the good thing is that his brother knows his whereabouts anyway; one could say that it is their version of teatime. Sunday dinner without the roast chicken, mashed potatoes and some fresh salad. Sherlock is not sure but he is confident that he would do a lot to sit at Mummy’s table and indulge in healthy dinner right now. He is not sure if he would be able to do it without mocking Mycroft but it might be possible. Mummy would be pleased, John would be pleased, and Mycroft would be secretly pleased.

Moreover, Sherlock would not be so terribly hungry anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock holds all these thoughts responsible for the fact that he only registers during the third round that the wooden floorboard next to the wardrobe is loose. The furniture has stood there for a long time but the traces of movement and small differences in the wood should have told Sherlock immediately: the wardrobe stood on another place 100 years ago.

What Sherlock finds under the wooden floorboard proves that the item was hidden intentionally. The item is a book, Victorian Pornography, to be precisely.

The British Law has changed over the centuries but Sherlock Holmes remains a detective. He knows the history of crime. Therefore, the story which Sherlock Holmes discovered might be the same back in Victorian Times but with a significant difference: back then, the owning, the producing and selling, or even reading, of such stories was prohibited. It still is, in some countries today; to those countries, Sherlock Holmes will travel soon.

He will not take this book with him, of course.

He will not read it now.

He will not even pick it up.

Or so he tells himself.

 

A mystery or adventure novel might have piqued Sherlock’s interest. A seafarer story might be secretly quite welcome. Alternatively, some Penny Dreadful, at least. Instead, Sherlock Holmes holds Victorian pornography in his hand.

The “book” is 225 pages long when one counts the preface, front and back cover, and the ominous ‘Introduction’ along with the main text.

Apparently, there are three stories. After skipping over ‘A Study in Lavender Lace’, ‘The Queer Affair of the Greek Interpreter’ and ‘The Final Solution’, Sherlock promises to himself to never mock John’s use of titles again. Already the blurb is a cry of sensationalism: ‘You always suspected that SH and his doctor were more than just good friends, didn’t you? Well, here at last is the long-suppressed COMPLETE, UNEXPURGATED story…’

Seriously, who has written this?

 

Sherlock never understood why such stories were forbidden. Not that he cares, one way or another, because he does not care for such flights of fancy. Come to think about it, he wished they were. Not because of their content, mind you, but because he can already spot a typo in one of the chapter titles.

Still, somehow the book has made its way to his bed.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock curls up under the blanket that reminds him of a similar one that Mrs Hudson had brought up from her apartment once, when 221B had been freezing because there was the issue with the forgotten heating bill. Sherlock has forgotten the details but he remembers the blanket, and the fireplace, and hot tea, and John and him sitting in their chairs.

And with the memories, there come the thoughts of home (and so much, much more), and Sherlock is furious. So furious that he throws away the blanket (which was too hot, anyway) and the story with it.

With a muffled sound, the Victorian pornography crashes onto the wooden floor.

Sherlock can hear their voices chiding him in his head.

There is Mrs Hudson with a half-understanding, half-disapproving tone, “Sherlock”.

Then, of course, his brother with his arching eyebrow and “sentiment” as his final deduction.

Last but not least, John.

What would John say? What would John do? What would he think?

John is accustomed to his habits and attitudes, to Sherlock. John knows how he treats their books. John just grins when he discovers Sherlock’s annotated “WRONG!” in one of his medical journals. Alternatively, he gets pissed off when Sherlock critiques his writing or reads aloud one of John’s email to his girlfriends; but all of this is just show, because he is forgiven in a heartbeat, whether Sherlock apologizes or not.

 

John does not know such stories.

Victorian Pornography.

Gay porn.

 

Or he would deny it. Very loudly. Very often. Not very convincing.

Not that Sherlock has ever found such stories on his computer, but the denial itself tells a lot, if you ask him. John just knows that Sherlock checks his browser history and his bedside table. Sherlock is almost sure that John has such stories hidden somewhere.

Nowadays, it is not a scandal or a big taboo anymore, even if they could be considered the elephant in the room at Baker Street.

However, maybe it is all only in his head.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock picks up the book. The blanket follows. Then he brushes the pages. He does not look at them. Then he snuggles up into the blanket again. He does not think about John, how he used to huddle under one of Mrs Hudson’s blankets, a hot tea in his hand, sitting on the sofa, Sherlock standing at the window, rainy Sunday, and violin music.

Sherlock Holmes misses English tea.

The story is boring. Predictable. And horribly irrational. Sherlock wants to throw the “Secret Journal” after the first sentence, after the third paragraph, and after the second chapter, on the floor. Then he gives up and reads the whole story. All this without looking at the pictures, because the story itself is a challenge.

Sherlock cannot pinpoint exactly why (he can but he prefers not to) he starts reading the strange meeting of the two queer men in a lab in London.

 

> “You’ve been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” he added after a momentary silence, and before I could question this extraordinary statement, he had launched into an enthusiastic description of the experiment in which he was presently engaged.
> 
> “I’ve found it!” he told us excitedly. “I have discovered a reagent which is precipitated by haemoglobin and nothing else!”
> 
> “This is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but practically…”
> 
> “Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years! Don’t you see that it gives us an infallible test for bloodstains? Come over here!” He seized me by the coat sleeve in his eagerness and drew me to the table at which he had been working. “Nice,” he muttered absently, as his hand slipped from my arm and grazed lightly across my hip and backside. Then he launched into a description of his experiments and their result, drawing a drop of blood from his own finger to illustrate the point. “Ha! Ha!” he cried as the solution underwent an obvious reaction. “What do you think of that?”
> 
> “It seems a very delicate test,” I remarked. By now, I was more than minimally attracted to him, wishing he would forgo his scientific endeavours and get more to the point of my visit.

 

The story is too simple.

As if, sex would change anything, or him! As if this story or other stories would change anything. Sherlock Holmes does not take an interest in such stories, not as such. Sherlock Holmes writes about deductions and various types of tobacco ash. He reads books about toxins, about crimes, and sometimes John’s blog.

That all fits together neatly. That is rational. Logical.

Emotions, the fairer sex that is not his area. Sherlock knows how sex works. Sherlock knows what love is. Sherlock knows that the story next to him, lying on his cushion, is a story about love and sex. Sherlock Holmes could deduce about the producer, about possible readership, about him, the customer, over a hundred years after publication.

Alternatively, Sherlock could wish for a cup of tea.

Like how John does it. The best would be a tea prepared by John. That would be a story Sherlock would prefer to read.

Indeed, it would not even be that different from the story Sherlock has just read.

 

> At length, he reached across to me, laying his hand gently on my thigh.
> 
> I started at the sudden and unexpected contact, glancing sharply at my companion who remained completely unruffled by this show of alarm. “Nothing to fear, old fellow,” he said softly. “But you are such a handsome chap; I find it difficult to keep my hands off you. You don’t mind, I hope?”
> 
> “Well...err...under the circumstances…” I stammered. “No,” I managed at last. “No, in fact, it’s rather pleasant. Your hand is so warm...and large.”
> 
> My companion laughed aloud. “That is quite an interesting comment,” he remarked. “Tell me, as a doctor, do you adhere to the belief in a correlation between the sizes of various cartilaginous membranes?” There was a definite twinkle in his eyes, now, and I realized he was alluding to that particular portion of his body that must remain presently hidden from my view.
> 
> “I have never given it a great deal of thought,” I replied, “but I would suppose there is some logic to support such a conclusion. Certainly, the size of one’s hands and feet do seem to bear a predictable relationship.”
> 
> “Yes, indeed,” he muttered. “Yes, indeed.” Then, quite boldly, he permitted his fingers to slide across my thigh, coming to rest with the tips of his long, heavy digits against the growing mound between my legs. “Fascinating!” he breathed softly.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock learns over the next two or three hours, that the story is about two friends, different in their ways, but forming a unit because of each of them being the perfect fit for the two so-called misfits. One day, they discover that they share more than friendship, more than everyday life and adventures, and so they become closer – romantically and sexually. Now, discussions are ended with a kiss, while walking on the street, they offer the arm to lean on; there will be more harsh words in case of danger and in the darkness, in the secrecy of the private bed chambers, a bit more love. Still, it is not a story about big changes.

And in the mornings, they drink tea.

Only, now, with a hushed “thank you, love”.

Oh, and yes, there is no hiding in the fact that this anonymous narrator is the madman’s “cup of tea”, too.

A bachelor living with another bachelor for the last five years; for five very happy years (with lots of sex).

Sherlock falls asleep while rereading a paragraph he came back to over and over again.

 

> “That a bit of buggery should so completely change one’s life!” remarked my companion several days later. He smiled at me, reaching out to crasp my arms in a firm, warm grip.
> 
> “A change for the better, I hope.” I returned his adoring look, and placed my palm on top of his, squeezing it gently.
> 
> He bent to kiss the back of my hand and chuckled softly. “Very much so!” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

During his dream on this particular night, in the old inn in the heart of France, where outside the forces of nature are in an uproar still, Sherlock does not only dream about John bringing him his morning tea, but also about John’s voice whispering to him “ _Je t’aime_ ”.

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Victorian pornography Sherlock Holmes discovers and reads is a real book. It is called 'The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes' (TSASH) by Larry Townsend. Townsend - more or less - retells ACD canon up to Reichenbach with an explicit queer twist (spoiler: it's gay porn). TSASH was first published in 1971. It exists as paperback and hardcover; there are mutiple editions; it was translated into German ('Heiße Fälle für Sherlock Holmes') in 1997. And yes, Townsend (1930-2008) is THE Townsend, the famous queer/gay rights activist who wrote - among many many many things - 'The Leatherman's Handbook' aka the first book that introduced BDSM to the general public. 
> 
> Long story short: it's a tad cheating because it's not "real" Victorian Pornography; however, it's ACD!Johnlock written by a gay icon. Oh, and before you read my second chapter, if you happen to have not read TSASH yet, read that instead. Head the warnings, possible kinks & triggers but seriously, even it's an oldie, it's a goodie.


	3. All good things happen in bed, surely.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes plays the violin under a waterfall at the end of the world. It's sheer melodrama, but it's him (& John).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut, Hello & Hallo :)
> 
> We're back at Burgundy, France. Thanks for coming with me (& Sherlock ;)) The places Sherlock is going to visit in the next chapters are all real places that are very dear to me. 
> 
> A very smart woman (who might or might not be one of my excellent betas, links :)) reminded me that readers can only fall in love with a place when they can "see" the place. Therefore, I added A LOT of infos and trivia about the places in general, and edited major parts of chapter 1. However, if something is unclear, or you just want to hear me ramble even more about Burgundy, just leave a comment. 
> 
> Lastly, I do not know if it's actually legal to - let's say - make a private concert in/at 'Le Bout du Monde' ("The End of the World") in Burgundy... I just know that one *can* do it XD

At dawn, Sherlock knows that the work has to wait.

He cannot continue like this. At least, not for now.

When someone, anyone, later would ask him why he chose that route, he would not give an exact answer. 

Mycroft in his mind calls him a fool (and will certainly do so in the future in one of his coded messages, his only remaining link to his old life. He is his only confidant, his last resort, and oh, how they both loathe it).  His brother will probably lecture or scold him, or maybe he will only raise his eyebrows. Worse, Mycroft will be silent and will pretend to have not said anything, even though Sherlock can hear his ‘sentiment’ as if his older brother had shouted it. Oh, and is Mycroft not correct about it? Because it is ‘sentiment’, it is... love.

It is love that drives Sherlock to the end of the world.

Quite literally.

Because that is the English translation for the place, where Sherlock spends hours and hours.

_ Le bout du Monde _ .

The End of the World.

It is a remote place.

If the inn was in the heart of France, then  _ Le bout du Monde _ is in the heart of Burgundy. Technically, it is not correct but Sherlock – for once – is not about exact locations and geography. He does not care how long the rocks have been standing there, how many centuries it took the water and wind to carve the form, or how deep the tunnel is. He does not count the trees. He knows the story behind its name – the End of the World – but he pretends not to know it for today. It is not deleted, but dimmed down.

One day off.

One day.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock could have got some breakfast in the inn but he tries to keep a low profile and talking to people - during mornings or any time of the day - even without being on a mission/ case/ run, was never his preferable pastime. (The chef is far too observant, Sherlock had already registered. She is running a tight ship in the kitchen. Ex-military, Sherlock’s first guess.)

 

Sure, there are exceptions but he bans any thoughts out of his head, and he is determined not to remember the story he had read last evening, or the dream he had had last night, or what John might wish for breakfast, or how John would love this village.

Instead, Sherlock does not like the coffee, he hates the croissant, and he would have a talk with the local newspaper. If he did not know better he would blame them all for his bad mood.

The coffee tastes almost perfect, and in combination with the croissant, it is heaven. Sherlock is so frustrated that he would scream aloud if that would not blow his cover because Sherlock knows that today his level of resistance are low, and he could not keep up the front with the French today. Therefore, he flees the picture-perfect scenery of a French town as soon as possible.

Afterwards he had bought some baguette, cheese, grapes, butter, and yes, a bottle of red wine, from a small shop. He should not indulge, but he also should not take one day off, so he throws caution to the wind. If Mycroft were to make a scene, Sherlock could say, “Would you prefer the drugs, Mycroft? You should have said…”

To have such thoughts, such scenes in his head, demonstrate how much Sherlock needs this break, at least for one day.

He bought a violin that he had spotted in an antique shop in town on a whim.

Then he had “borrowed” the car from a French local woman, one, Sherlock knows by name, but even more remembers her story. She had been around the age Sherlock is now, smart as a whip, tough as nail, and a kind heart, when they first met. She could swear like a sailor; skin brown like a nut; and a breast cancer survivor. Without batting an eyelash, she had dropped the bomb as if it was another kitchen rule Sherlock had to follow, when someone had mention going to the nearby pond. Back then, implants weren’t that advanced, and they were an hassle anyway, so all Sherlock got was a warning for the scars, or more, a clipped-tone information, because the only real warning he got in all the time was - only once - for the iron oven. Therefore, Sherlock thought it accurate to “borrow” her car, and leave behind a note saying “Laterz”, she would understand him as she always did.

 

* * *

 

 

‘The End of the World’ is somewhere between Dijon and Beaune.

If you do not know where to look, it is easily missed. It is not that it is not large, or old, or whatever, it is just very remote. The drive up there is an adventure in itself. Some (or most, depending on who you ask) routes in France are peculiar, and in particular the ones in the mountains should come with more warning signs than they have already. Here, it is one windy road after another for miles and miles. The French are famous for building while considering the nature; oh, and here, in the heart of Burgundy, it is a force of nature. It should not come as a surprise that it is called  _ Le bout du Monde _ . Oh, it is not a literal, physical ending.  Here, it is far from ending anything. However, and that is why it got its name, when you stand exactly in front of “it”, you will easily believe that there is no way out.

There is one way - besides climbing above and hope to remain dry in spite of the waterfall - through the mountain. Only some decades ago, a mountaineer from Dijon found a way.  Inside the mountain, it is cold and wet, the mountain is always working, becoming narrower and narrower with every step, and you can barely see your own feet. You might be wandering for five minutes or two, because time passes differently inside the mountain, and you will be standing in water. Even in the driest seasons, when during the day 40 degrees is nothing (and at night, because it is so high, below zero is possible), being cold and wet will be your constant companion.

Sherlock remembers this special place from his childhood days.

His family has French ancestry. Vernet. Supposed to have been a painter or so Sherlock was told. When he had visited the continent with his family as a young boy, and in particular this place, he always had imagined smugglers and pirates; the many caves inside the mountains seemed to be ideal for such things. Even as a young boy, he had known that Burgundy had been once a very wealthy part of France, very powerful, with royal ancestry. Even today, one can spot its glorious past in its architecture. Sherlock had deleted most parts of the far too boring guided tours, but he had always had a very good memory and used to have a vivid imagination. That is why, even as a young boy when he was still called William, he had found it “obvious” why it is called ‘ _ Le bout du Monde _ ’.

Because it is not a place. It is a feeling. 

 

The place has not changed, or so Sherlock tells himself.

Maybe it is true, most likely it is not, but that is not important today. Today, Sherlock is grateful that he made it uphill without the car or his body being harmed (or inflicted more damage than there was already).

The sun is up. It will be hot at midday but as it is not even ten yet, it is simply pleasantly warm. How Sherlock tries to hate it.

It is memory that brings him deeper and deeper to the ‘end’. Where most people stop because cars have to park a long way before, Sherlock knows that the end of his journey is not near yet. When he sees the grotto at last, when he remembers the waterfall, the tons of water crashing down the massive rocks, when it is not the hottest days of summer, when nature closes (him) in, he knows why.

‘ _ Le bout du Monde _ ’.

It is not a place, it is a feeling.

And when Sherlock stands there, at ‘The End of the World’ once again, looking up at the sky, only a sliver of blue to see, surrounded, protected but also caged in, while letting the feeling of being trapped and no way-out rushing into his veins, he is overwhelmed.

He knows that he can scream at the rocks and that the acoustic is so excellent that all that will happen is that his manic, wild thoughts and feelings will be thrown back at him.

He could shout “John” and all he will be listening to is his own voice. His voice full of longing.

He could scream “Moriarty” and all he will listen to is his own voice. His voice full of rage.

He could yell “Mycroft” and all he will be listening to is his own voice. His voice full of desperation. And in the last case, maybe sooner rather than later, a scolding by his brother, including a comment about how he could be so childish.

The rare drops of water remind him of the rain hitting the windows of the inn last night. Oh, yes, it might neither be the power of spring nor the last hurrah of autumn or winter, but it is summer, and the reservoir below the mountain will never truly dry up. It might not be the impressive water cascades any longer but Sherlock knows his luck: he knows that the second he goes nearer, water droplets will hit him. He was never fond of his curls in humidity; now, being so far away from home and always on the run, they are wilder than he ever imagined (and wished). Nowadays, he even has a beard; it helps to blend in but it scratches.  The joy of working with disguises, masks and mirrors is gone, ever since his standing on St. Bart's.

It is sheer melodrama but it is so him, so it should not come as a surprise; and because he is alone, no one can comment or analyze him anyway. He is Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes is not only a consulting detective but also a drama queen. Oh yes, he is not an idiot, he knows who he is. He knows his strengths and his flaws, his limits and his weaknesses, his abilities and his fears; he knows that he is terribly human.

He is thousands of miles away from home, and will go further away still. He can count the days spent apart from John, even though he cannot say how long it will take him to come back.  Even if it would be tomorrow, and it will not be tomorrow, even tomorrow is too fucking long. Therefore, Sherlock does not give a damn, and tunes his violin-for-a-day.

While he prepares the instrument, he decides on what to play. Of course, he has an impressive back catalogue. When someone starts at a young age, continues to play extensively over decades and someone is talented, and Sherlock certainly is, and when has an even better memory, which Sherlock certainly has, then one cannot play perhaps everything, but one has certainly an extensive repertory to choose from. However, today he realizes that while noise transforms into sounds, it is time for some improvisation. Later, maybe even a bit of composing.

Today, all is off the book.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock plays until his fingers ache, and then he plays a little longer still. When his fingers almost cramp, and he can only hope for more calluses in the coming days, he stops at last. His muscles are stiff; it has been far too long since he held a violin. He will feel the soreness tomorrow. The humidity had altered the tunes constantly. It had been impossible to fine-tune the inferior instrument in the first place, but with every passing minute, it had become increasingly unbearable to listen to the sound. It was torturous to Sherlock’s ears - he who enjoys the fine arts - but he has to endure, and to remind himself that there are real scars on his back and there will be many more until he will be home again. Scars from actual torture.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes has learned quite a lot in the last 95 days.

He is not the man he used to be.

Sherlock is no idiot: He knows he will be changing still.

 

* * *

 

 

There is a man standing under a proverbial waterfall.

A waterfall that is situated at the literal ‘End of the World’. It is in the heart of France, but while the man plays and plays for hours and hours, his heart is in England.

The heart of the city, of his beloved London, is Baker Street.

 

It is more than an address.

It is more than a place.

It is a feeling.

 

It is not the creaking staircase, or the mantelpiece with the skull. Nor is it his bedroom with the poster of the periodic table on the wall, and neither is it the kitchen range full of his experiments. It is not even his violin case or the sight of his Belstaff hanging on the rack any longer.

It might be silly, or hopelessly romantic, or both - and it irritates Sherlock to no end that his mind is so preoccupied with images of home that it cannot even define emotions properly any longer - but his favourite place in Baker Street is now the place with the two chairs in front of the fireplace in their living room.

The one chair that is all leather, vintage, and gets so much more comfortable with Mrs Hudson’s woollen blanket. The other chair, opposite in more than the direction, is a bit rough around the edges but looks comfortable. And it is, not only when the oh-so-familiar Union Jack pillow is thrown onto it.

And it might be when Sherlock stands under the waterfall, or when he stood on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. Or maybe it had been after the case that John had called ‘A Study in Pink’. Or maybe it had been while being away in Dartmoor. Or or or...

Whenever it happened, at some point Sherlock Holmes learned that not only ‘The End of the World’ is not a place but a feeling, but that the same goes for 221B too.

 

A place that is home, and so much, much more.

 

It is more than English tea, or biscuits by Mrs Hudson. It is more than giggling at crime scenes or shouting “The game is on”. It is more than the rush of adrenaline when chasing criminals through London, with the knowledge that John (and his gun) is at his side. It is more than blog entries and countless deductions, more than “fascinating” and “brilliant” and “amazing”,  more than refusing Mycroft’s money and John patching him up after getting hurt.

It is sitting across from John in their chairs, listening to clients, watching (and shouting at) telly in the evenings, rearranging them in the mornings for breakfast (if they can actually be bothered). It is reading and writing and talking, and so much, much more.

Because it is not the chairs, or 221B, or Baker Street, or London, or England, or the UK. It is not about the place, even if it might be their home - and oh, how Sherlock wishes to have never left it and how he wishes to be back there already - but it is far more than that.

 

It is a feeling.

It is love.

 

Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, dear pipmer, for once again, being my excellent beta! And to all the readers for reading, commenting & leaving comments --- it means the world! And, extra thanks, to docnerdington & ghishalem who saved my fic when I accidentically deleted it on Google Doc. LOVE this fandom <3 
> 
> EDIT: And, yes, of course, to links(writing) who kicked my a** and made me rewrite my fic and let me fall in love with this country and those two idiots again. Merci! Without you, I would be lost in translation :D


	4. Marry me, John.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes visits an old church and imagines going down the aisle with John at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Salut & Hallo,
> 
> welcome to the third chapter of 'To the Ends of the Earth'. I know that it's been a while since the last update, but as the forth chapter is basically finished, expect another trip to Burgundy (France) soon. Today, as in chapter 3, we get to the heart of the story. I hope you're going to fall in love with this country while Sherlock falls deeper and deeper in love with John. After all, as we're going to learn (surprise!) there might be a link between the two ;)
> 
> Happy reading & MERCI to my two lovely betas, linkswriting & pipmer, and to elwinglre, who is a life-saver when it comes to Google (and Mon Dieu, was I yelling at it).
> 
> ade

Sherlock Holmes is not a religious man. Yet, while he is driving around in the French countryside, he cannot stop his thoughts from wandering.

Originally, he intended to reread John’s blog. To go back to the start and begin with the case of Jefferson Hope, which John later had published under the title ‘A Study in Pink’. However, it is not the first case that Sherlock wants to remember - and how could he forget it anyway - but their first meeting:

 

> The lab of St. Barts in London. Sherlock at his laptop, tapping away. On his fingers – typing so fast, like a machine. From the other end of the room: The door opening, voices. Behind him, John and Mike coming into the room. Without glancing up from the computer, Sherlock had asked, “Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine.” And while Mike has replied, “Sorry. Other coat”, John had reached into his jacket and was proffering his phone instead, “Here. Use mine.”

 

On his blog, John had titled it as ‘A Strange Meeting’. “He is mad, and certainly not safe, but I will never be bored with him”, that were John’s word in 2010. Sherlock had commented as “romanticism”, and oh, how he wished it were true.

Now, all Sherlock has are words.

Words and memories.

It is one of John’s first sentences, one of his very first reactions to Sherlock’s deductions, which decide Sherlock’s next destination on his one day-off _L'Église du Vieux Saint-Pierre_. Because when Sherlock had asked back then about last words, John had responded immediately with, “Dear God, let me live.”

Sherlock Holmes might not be a religious man, but if prayers will bring him back to John, then Sherlock will do it.

 

* * *

 

Saint-Pierre-en-Vaux is a commune in the Côte-d'Or department in eastern France. This means that Sherlock - as he came from _Le Bout du Monde_ in the North - has to drive a circle. Alternatively, to remain with the heart-metaphor, from the right ventricle to the left. He even has to drive by the inn; that is French route system for you. It got better over the last decades, and the toll helps with opening new routes, but ‘All roads lead to Paris’ - that remains a very French thing.

When Sherlock remembers correctly, and he tries to distract himself with digging up as much trivia he can find in his mind palace while driving the distance, then there are many streets in Germany still named _Pariser Straße_ , which means this: in France, everything and anything lead to Paris. Moreover, when Napoleon invaded parts of Germany, not only the _Code Civil_ but also modern bureaucracy and yes, route systems were adapted.

Decentralization is a work-in-progress; and France, _Mon dieu_ , never was a nation fond of radical change (with one prominent exception, at least, for a decade, that is).

 _Laissez-faire_ , that is the motto for the people, just like their country.

 

* * *

 

One might say that _L’Église du Vieux Saint-Pierre_ is not that far away from Lacanche but distance works different here. It could be a flicker of a second, or a lifetime away, and Sherlock had left his watch behind at the inn.

Sherlock knows where to left his “rented” car behind because the path is too narrow, and there is an old bridge on its way up, too. The church is situated on the top of a mountain in the middle of a forest. However, the access is not the biggest challenge, even that is one (and Google Maps will tell you that there is a route into never where), but the weather. The problem with places like _Le bout du Monde_ or _L'Église du Vieux Saint-Pierre_ is that one cannot see the weather turning when being there.

When rocks at the end of the world surround you, there is no way to spot it.

Here, when you are surrounded by forest, it is the same.

There could be an east wind coming --- and only when it hits you in your face, when it's far too late to find shelter, when the thunder strikes and water crashes down from the refilled waterfall, only then you will realize it.

Then, however, it is too late.

 

* * *

 

There is the tale that people were hidden in _L'Église du Vieux Saint-Pierre_ during the German occupation. Not far from here, in small towns like Lacanche (there is just the village of Sevre in between; overall, less than half an hour walk away), Nazis murdered countless people. However, just like Google maps and all tourist boards cannot find _L'Église du Vieux Saint-Pierre_ today, when the best of information is some address and an outdated photograph, all in French and all not very welcome, the Nazis were unable to locate it in the 1940s either.

It is one of the few undiscovered places in the world. One of those – when being lucky – will feature one day in ‘To the Ends of the Earth’-section of BBC Travel. It is one of those places that you find by inside tip or by sheer accident, but when you have found it, you will find it even during the dead of night or in middle of winter.

There is a possibility that if Sherlock chooses to hide here, Moriarty’s men will never find him.

However, neither will John.

 

* * *

 

One could imagine that an outsider is spotted easily. However, it is not as if many people live Saint-Pierre-en-Vaux now, its population is a bit over a hundred inhabitants. Further, the people commute in the early hours of the day, to Arnay-le-Duc, Beaune, or even so far as Dijon, and only come home after dark. Lastly, the average age of the people living in Saint-Pierre-en-Vaux today is probably twice Sherlock’s age. If someone saw Sherlock, no one reported him.

Sherlock did not have a signal for what feels like ages - and he does not miss it.

He is driven by and he drives deeper into the heart of this wild country, and his thoughts and feelings are not gone but they lose their intensity with every passing mile. When he thinks of Mycroft, when he hikes the last meters uphill, he can almost smile. To not being able to locate his baby brother, it must be an absolute horror.

Most days, his brother is his landline, but today, on his one-day-off, he relishes in the feeling of solitude.

 

* * *

 

 _L'Église du Vieux Saint-Pierre_ is an old church. Mycroft would probably say, “How good that you haven't lost all of your artistic senses. You were considered so gifted.”

The foundation is from the 9th century; the major parts are from the 10th and 11th century. There is a small graveyard next to it.

Inside, it is damp; the temperature drops instantly when you open the loud door and enter.

The interior of the church is plain and simple. You will not find cushions on the old wooden benches. Here, time stands still. The few paintings show the crucifixion of Jesus, some portraits of Saints and a Madonna. Some years back, the church was whitewashed, however, time and candlelight has darkened the walls to an indefinable grey.

There is no heating or electricity.

It is never loud here. It does not even get crowded on Christmas or Easter. The church was built for a population far larger than Saint-Pierre-en-Vaux has today.

However, when there are concerts in the old church, it is full of people. Sherlock had sneaked in as a violinist in his youth; it was like going on an adventure. It was an International Youth Choir and its orchestra. People coming from France, Italy, Belgium, Russia, and Germany - Sherlock could blend in. It was not as if they cared. When Sherlock walks around the old walls, reminiscing and thinking again that if those walls could talk, he remembers the man who had seemed to be already ancient in Sherlock’s youth, and how he had not only spoken but also lived _jumelage_. It might be a pain in the arse to tune any instrument here, and it is as if he could hear their _Merde_ und _Scheiße_ all over again, and when he would pull out his new violin, he would add a vocal _Fuck_ , too, but when it is finished?

Back in the old days, they understand the true meaning of ‘worship’.

 

* * *

 

In an instant, Sherlock’s thoughts wander to John, and how he wished to worship him. It is a new thought, born out of the last couple of hours.

All is linked to John.

All his words and memories are linked to him.

Before all this happened, Sherlock might have thought that his beginning and ending is Moriarty, after all, how often has the man screamed how much they are alike? Now, after months on the run and still far too many months ahead, Sherlock can see how wrong both of them were. Or, maybe it is only him because Moriarty realized in the end that it was John that made all the difference, John who made Sherlock run away and to him, who is his beginning and his ending.

Moriarty did not made Sherlock Holmes, John Watson did.

Moriarty is not Sherlock Holmes downfall, John is.

For him, and him only, he fell down a building, for him, and him only, he went to the waterfall, and for him, and him only, and he would go to the Ends of the Earth, if _Le Bout du Monde_ were not enough, because it is his love for John Watson that shapes him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock knows that when all words are lost, music can find a way to express memories and emotions. He is a man who always found it easier to communicate via music; he does speak many languages, and he has the ability to pick up accents easily, but he knows that there are limits.

Unlike hours prior, he knows that it is time for something less improvised; not his own composition but something that he can shape into its own interpretation by playing.

It takes Sherlock only a flicker of a second to choose a song title.

He needs to distance himself, therefore neither English nor French. Even the Eastern European Composers are magnificent; he fears what will await him when he will travel there soon. In the end, it is not the language but the lyrics that makes the difference.

After all, Sherlock had spent hours driving, walking, admiring the countryside.

After all, it is love that started his journey, and will drive him further still.

 

_L’amour fait ce qu’il veut._

Call ourselves by our own name, because who we are matters.

Call me by your name, and I will call you by mine.

 

Hours ago, Sherlock Holmes played the violin at _Le Bout du Monde_ , in the North of Burgundy.

Now, hours later, Sherlock Holmes will play in _L'Église du Vieux Saint-Pierre_ , in the east of this rural part in the heart of France.

He came full circle; to remain with the heart-metaphor, from the right ventricle to the left.

 

A beating heart.

A heart that belongs to John.

After all, all roads lead to John.

Therefore, Sherlock picks up his violin-for-a-day, and starts playing _Vestiva i colli_ (1566).

 

And he plays, and plays, and plays.

Like he drove, and drove, and drove.

How he run, and run, and run.

How he loved, loves, and will love.

 

John.

John?

John!

 

His heart, his start and his end, their first meeting and their last goodbye, and how he will restart his heart if necessary, how he will go to the Ends of the Earth if necessary, how he cheated death and how he will resurrect, how they both will be alive, when he comes home.

Because John is home, and John is love, and John is life.

His home, his love, his life.

His John.

 

And with every repetition, the original tunes and lyrics vary a bit.

In the end, it could be a flicker of a second, or a lifetime away because distance works different here, Sherlock plays _Vestiva i colli_ how he feels it.

 

* * *

 

> You walk through the countryside, and I might compare you to a spring’s beauty.
> 
> I love you, oh, how I adore you.
> 
> It might be at dawn, morning has broken, a new day is born, when I put my eyes on you, like you are blessed by the Gods.
> 
>  
> 
> I love you most ardently, you bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, love, love you.
> 
>  
> 
> Pick up some flowers, or I will gift it to you, because you are beauty, you are grace, _cor cordium_ , my heart of hearts.
> 
> I say to you: As a gift for your love, I picked you a flower and hand it to you.
> 
> Wear it proudly, I hope, you do.
> 
>  
> 
> Say, you do.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes is not a religious man, nor has he imagined himself as the marrying type.

Great Britain has changed the law only recently; from civil partnership to equal marriage. He does not know about the _status quo_ in France. He could look it up, when he got a signal again, that is. Alternatively, he could ask himself why he thinks about such things in the first place. Alternatively, and this is the route that Sherlock decides to go now: ignore all the data and let the feelings flow in.

The aisle of the old church is narrow; there are no escape routes on the way to the altar. Sure, when one is Sherlock Holmes and has John Watson as his partner at your side, you would certainly come up with something, but why running away when you have found what you were looking for?

Sherlock’s clothing is miles away from his normal style, or, what happened when even your beloved Belstaff is miles away with your beloved man. Yet, Sherlock can paint a picture. Dark blue suits, white button down, matching cravats, maybe some fancy hats (or, so would John call it), polished shoes (and Sherlock would sneak in a new pair for John), and later, matching rings on their hands.

They would be smiling.

Glorious, wide and open.

No hiding, no denial.

 

Two men in love.

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All places and infos are correct. If you have any questions, just ask. As you have probably gather already, I could talk for days about Burgundy (France). And yes, I felt a lot like Sherlock in 'A Study in Pink' while looking up English translation/explanation for most of the trivia: "WRONG!", because nope, 'Le Bout du Monde' is neither a wine bar in Beaune nor a camping site. Or, at least, not 'Le Bout du Monde' I know and love.
> 
> The text for the memory about John and Sherlock’s meeting is the original script of ‘A Study in Pink’ written by Steven Moffat (http://downloads.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/scripts/Sherlock-A-Study-in-Pink-final-shooting-script.pdf). 
> 
> The quote from Johns blog entry is from the fictional one created by the BBC (http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/29january).
> 
> The song Sherlock plays is Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (1525-1594): 'Vestiva i colli e le campagne intorno' (1566). The translation is my very own, very liberal interpretation, aka rewritten for Johnlock. I do love the original (http://www0.cpdl.org/wiki/index.php/Vestiva_i_colli_e_le_campagne_(Giovanni_Pierluigi_da_Palestrina; listen to a version on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJFz_7lVwYc).
> 
> Actually, I listened to exactly that song in exactly that church some years ago. Transferred for, no joking, classical guitar. Hence, to honour the fabolous musician, the quote from André Aichmann's "Call me by your name". 
> 
> 'L'amour fait ce qu'il veut' is the iconic song by MIKA, an openly gay/queer singer-songwriter, musician and apparently, X-Factor judge in France (thanks to my beta, links, who gave me that insight!). And yes, when you look up the lyrics you can easily spot why I picked it: it's 100% Johnlock (http://www.songtexte.com/songtext/mika/lamour-fait-ce-quil-veut-537a8b85.html). There's an AMAZING live version with the L'Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal in the Special Edition of MIKA's album 'No Place in Heaven'; seriously, LISTEN to it if you can. And then "Good Guys" which is about queer icons and representation, and quotes Oscar Wilde in its lyrics, and have I mention that it's very very queer?! :D
> 
> That you can read this chapter now owns to no small depth to elwinglre who's "the queen of research", aka, without her, Google would still give 'City of Stars' from the movie LA LA LAND (2016) instead of Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina: 'Vestiva i colli' (1566) as a result. 
> 
> That you can read it in a language that is "more understandable for an English reader" is due two my two excellent betas, links & pipmer who are probably magic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Food porn, basically.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes cooks _Bœuf bourguignon_ in Lacanche; because, that is the place to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, salut & Hallo :)
> 
> As promised, a new, faster update. Today, as part of 221BConsolation, we're going to the heart of authentic French cuisine, Lacanche (Burgundy). After all, at least for me it's true, one sure way to cheer up is to cook. Let's see what Sherlock is up to in the kitchen...

Food is more than food. Some days, it is the taste of home. Aromas call to the core of us. Memories, good and bad, are tied to what shapes us a human being. When we smell it, taste it, touch it, see it, and yes, even when we hear the sizzling of a hot pan, instantly, we paint a picture in our head.

 

It  has  been a while since Sherlock last  visited  Burgundy; ten, fifteen years  ago . However, this day that is not over quite yet, had brought him back  here .

 

He had relished in his solitude, but he had their voices constantly in his head. More than once, not only when he imagined marrying John in the future, it had seemed as if Sherlock was not exploring and (re)discovering this rural country on his own, but with John at his side. As if, he, Sherlock Holmes, would not only experience the heart of Burgundy, but also his very own human heart.

A beating heart that belongs to John.

John might be thousands of miles away, but as long as Sherlock’s mind palace is with him, so is John. After all, just as 221B Baker Street is more than a place to call home, so is John more than a blogger, a flatmate, a colleague and his best friend.

And if John might not be that in reality yet, Sherlock promises himself to change it as soon as he comes home.

 

Therefore, for this scenario, he can practise tonight.

To show that he has changed, that he can make amends now, to prove that he is a partner in a relationship. It would be lovely to share something, to take some hours off on a Sunday to prepare a meal together. To switch off their mobile phones, to ignore the blog, to not even listen to the noise of London outside. Or, and this scenario is even more to his liking because he is Sherlock Holmes aka he loves to show off: He would wait for John with a dinner ready to serve.

 

> “You can cook?”
> 
> “Don't look so shocked, John. You do know that cooking is basically practical chemistry?”
> 
> “This is _Boeuf Bourguignon_ , Sherlock.”
> 
> “Excellent observation, John. Even your pronunciation is a bit off.”
> 
> “ _Merci_ , git. Why?”
> 
> “Haven't you said yourself once that this is what - I quote - Girlfriends, Boyfriends, do? Feed you up?”
> 
> “...”
> 
> “John…”
> 
> “Eh, yes,... I… Sorry, just... Of course, yes, boyfriends do sometimes things like that.”
> 
> “You don't want...”
> 
> “NO, no, Sherlock. This is lovely. I am just… surprised, love. But lovely surprise. Lovely. You're lovely.”
> 
> “Good… that’s good. So, take a seat, John, make yourself comfortable. Dinner will be ready in two or three hours.”
> 
> “Two or three hours, Sherlock? You do realize that I came home from the clinic. That I might be hungry. Could you not have planed it better?”
> 
> “Oh, I did _plan_ , John…”
> 
> “Did _you_...”
> 
> “Oh, yes…what do you think John, what could we _do_ in the meantime?”

 

Just them, two men in love.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock purchased the ingredients for _Bœuf bourguignon_ in a little shop, just around the corner from the inn.

For a second, Sherlock had thought about looking up a recipe but it turns out that his memory works in his favour: beef, onions, and a bottle of red wine (of course, from the region), salt and pepper, some herbs ( _bouquet garni_ ), and of course, the famous mustard. There are no tomatoes, or paprika, or bacon, or whatever people put nowadays in _Bœuf bourguignon –_ let it be in Julia Child’s legacy or not. Only the original ingredients for authentic French cuisine find their way into his shopping bag.

Lacanche remains a small town with a bit over 1200 inhabitants. Even in the 21st century, there are no skyscrapers or social housing in form of a block of flats to be found. Here, all is within walking distance; when one wants to do the rounds, it takes less than an hour to do so. When you leave the outskirts of Lacanche not even the tunes of “Staying Alive” will be finished, when you reach the next village.

 

Sherlock sneaked into the common house of Lacanche unnoticed after he had “borrowed” the key to the kitchen.

It is late, and when he is finished, it will be even later still.

Probably Sherlock will leave the dirty dishes and kitchen utensils in the industrial dishwasher and leave a note and some money behind, apologizing to the woman who actually has the keys and hoping she is still how Sherlock remembers from his youth: _laissez-faire_. At least, Sherlock knows to look out for the dishwasher, because if you do not close the machine with full body-force, there is the chance that the complete room will flood.

 

The kitchen in the common house in Lacanche might look on the surface as if it is a standard kitchen range. Only when you know where to look, you can spot the label: _Lacanche_. In the Burgundy village of Lacanche, ovens, ranges and cooking equipment have been built since the 19th century in the spirit of a long tradition of craftsmanship in metal. At the heart of this land of wine and fine cuisine, Lacanche plays its part in expressing and promoting the culinary art. Faithful to its heritage, Lacanche, a family business, balances experience, expertise and innovation to offer both the professional chef and the cooking enthusiast the instruments with which to truly express their talents.

There is no better place in the world to cook authentic _Bœuf bourguignon_ than in Lacanche, the small town in the heart of Burgundy.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock starts with the _mise en place_. _Mise en place_ is a French culinary term that means to have all your ingredients ready before the actual cooking begins. Prep it, organize it, _chop, chop_!

Sherlock blames the onions for the tears in his eyes. Then he stops pretending and gives in to the feelings. He wishes for John’s jumpers. They are soft and comfortable, they smell of John and home, and they are warm. All things he does not have anymore; there are days when he would trade his Belstaff for one of John’s jumpers. If he could pick one, it would be the woollen jumper with the colour that John says is beige. It makes him look plain and simple; it screams ‘I am who I am’; oh, and John Watson is both anything but, and exactly this.

Sherlock reins himself in, goes into his mind palace, and repeats the cooking method as if it had been just yesterday when he had learned to make the famous dish in this very kitchen.

 

After the onions, it is time for carrots, mushrooms and leeks, if you want to use them.

Wash the meat, if necessary. Some people cut it into slices; certainly, it will finish earlier that way. Sherlock chooses the authentic route which is not quick but hearty, without extra vegetables but with no cheap wine from another region, and original Dijon mustard.

He goes for baguette, too. No potatoes, certainly not rice.

Sherlock preheats the oven. He knows about taking precautions; he was burned in his youth, one of the very few old scars that are not from needles, but from here, inflicted by this iron oven. For a second, Sherlock toys with the idea of inflicting another burn mark, to make himself remember that he made it here, and that he is still alive, and maybe to numb the pain of all the other scars, visible and below the surface. Then he chides himself because that is a level of stupidity that Dr. John Watson would never tolerate.

Therefore, instead, Sherlock goes back to cooking.

In a pot, a pan, or the already-prepared casserole, depending on your kitchen equipment, sauté the onions until caramel brown. Sherlock could choose some extra pot but he is a lazy git, and therefore, he opts for the casserole.

Then, roast the meat on all four sides. Yes, the onions will turn even darker during the procedure. No worries - it is all about flavour.

Afterwards, add salt and pepper, and most importantly, even most recipes forget it, mustard. You can add it with a spoon or, since cooking should be about all your senses, massage the meat with your own fingers. Throw the herbs over it, so hopefully not all will go into the sauce but some will stick and give a tasty crust.

Then it is time: alcohol. One bottle of red Burgundy. Non-negotiable.

Depending on how many mouths you have to feed and how many of them want to indulge into dipping fresh baguette into the slow-cooked, almost melting meat later, add stock or broth.

 

In the future, when being back at home, Sherlock could use John’s favourite RMAC mug to measure the stock-alcohol-ratio. He would have stopped using it for experiments by then; or at least would have been better at hiding it.  That is a lesson he learned from the book last night; it was a rather helpful find, Sherlock can admit that now.

 

> “I wonder if you would give me a hand with a rather interesting experiment.”
> 
> “Experiment? What kind of experiment?”
> 
> “Oh, nothing much. Simply stand by while I am drinking this. You might need your stethoscope.”
> 
> “Stethoscope?” The good doctor inquires, and comes nearer to the lab table, “Dangerous, is it, old boy?”
> 
> “It should be perfectly safe”, I assure him.
> 
> “Wait a minute; I distinctly hear a knock at the door.”

 

However, for them, Sherlock and John, it would be different. For them, those Victorian Gentlemens, all happened behind closed doors and curtains drawn tight, after all, this is the 19th century:

 

> “Is this our teapot that you're using for one of your abhorrend experiments?”
> 
> “Yes, I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”
> 
> “I forbid you to use it for tea unless you clean it out, come to think about it, I demand that you throw it out.”
> 
> “Throw it out, old boy? Don’t you think that is a bit drastic?”
> 
> The good doctor faced me with a stern look. _Immediately_ , apparently. I huffed, and put it away.
> 
> “Thank God, you did not touch out best teapot. Stay away from it; do you hear me, old man?”
> 
> “Loud and clear, my dear.”
> 
> What my companion could not hear was me thinking, ‘Thank God, you don’t know what I did with it last week.’

 

What this Victorian gentleman did would be exactly what Sherlock would have done before today.

However, today is a different day and he is a new man, and therefore, Sherlock vows to make no experiments with kitchen utensils anymore.

An extra fridge for body parts, safety gloves, and Erlenmeyer instead of John’s favourite mug, that seems… reasonable. After he would have burned – accidently – some of John’s jumpers, that is. Maybe they could turn 221C into a laboratory. Moriarty is dead; he will not present them with more trainers of his victims. That would be a nice thing, would it not?

For new beginnings, instead of looking back, a new shared future. After all, this is the 21st century!

 

* * *

 

After all of this is done, all you have to do is waiting. Four hours, that is a standard wait... If you cut down your meat, two hours might be sufficient. Alternatively, you could slow-cook and let it simmer for an afternoon or over-night. Heat it up again, no problem. Prepare a day prior, even. The longer the cooking time, the more tender the meat will be, and the more flavour you can taste and smell in the sauce. The great thing about _Bœuf bourguignon_ is that there is no ending.

How Sherlock wishes that would be true for his life, too, the life with John Watson at his side. Not this half-life: barely breathing, only existing, always on the run, close to death but not dead. Because that would be the end, and Sherlock wants their life to start.

 

While Sherlock waits for _Bœuf bourguignon_ , he could reminiscence, or as he calls it, “Go into my mind palace”.

Alternatively, he could make new, not exactly memories, but… dreams. Is that the accurate term? Sherlock is frustrated as much as flustered. He is a grown-up man; oh, and how would John say: “You must have impulses?”

Sherlock snorts. John might be a private man, but he will not be that Victorian, will he?

Before John had showed up, Sherlock had had no impulses. Alternatively, because Sherlock is fed up with lying: he ignored them. There were the one or two occasions during which he might have felt an urge or inkling, something nagging in the back of his mind, a fleeting touch he would have not minded to be a bit less… fleeting, but overall?

Oh, Sherlock is as much in denial as John is. Quite a match, in that regard. And no, Sherlock does not find this funny anymore.

 

Another vow: to make John see that Sherlock is a man with… desires. (And how does that not sound as bad as “impulses”?)

 

* * *

 

Instead of waiting for the minutes to tick by, he will go back to the inn. The showers are within walking distance; it is almost an invitation, is it not? The _Bœuf bourguignon_ will still be there and certainly more tender and tasty, after Sherlock has had some quality time under the shower.

It is what John Watson does regularly, mostly in the morning, but sometimes after a stressful day at the clinic, he takes an extra session in the evening, too. This is certainly not, what Sherlock Holmes would normally do. However, it is Sherlock’s day off. Who knows when or if he will do it again? He has done so many things he has not done in decades today already.

He made a vow to show John Watson his love, to show that he is a man, but this will have to wait until he can come home. However, he can show himself, prove to himself that he is a man that he is breathing and alive, and yes, in love.

 

Practise helps; his first _Bœuf bourguignon_ was edible but there was room for improvements.  Sherlock’s mind palace has only recently added a room for John Watson the lover, and as he has barely any experience in this certain area, it might be not that bad to improve his skill set until they meet again. Most people experience it on their own first, and there cannot be that much of a difference between a pornographic magazine or video and the content of the book Sherlock has discovered only yesterday. Sherlock might be a virgin but he is not an idiot, he knows that there are certainly more… things and yet, Sherlock Holmes does not want something fancy, something exotic, he just wants… this.

He cringes when thinking about the analogy of dishes, but it is quite fitting, in a certain way. Just like _Bœuf bourguignon_ stands for the heart of Burgundy, something simple but oh so delicious, Sherlock does not want something special, he simply wants John. Preferably in his arms, in 221B, in their home.

Smiling, maybe laughing or grinning, John might tease him a bit and Sherlock might be blushing a bit, and there will be kisses, so many kisses. Touching would be good, too. Counting scars, freckles, and wrinkles. Identifying scents, cataloguing sounds.

Making love.

 

> “Dinner?” – “Starving.”

 

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lacanche is the home to the world-famous kitchen manufacturer. Their kitchens are even in use in the Elysée Palace. They are the best of the best, believe me. Their products look vintage; old iron etc. but are the state of the art. It’s a privilege to visit the factory, and to learn to cook in the village… I, personally, think that there’s no better place in the world. It’s authentic (!) French Cuisine. Learn more about them here: https://www.lacanche.com/index_en.php (it's in English, no worries).
> 
> The recipe for _Bœuf bourguignon_ is how *I* learned to make it many many years ago. It’s not the recipe you can find on the internet. Yes, I tried to find an English translation or one by a (master) chef and translate it on my own, but ALL of them are not what I’ve been taught in Lacanche. However, I have made it countless times, and so far, with great success. It’s an authentic (!), hearty recipe.  
>  _Bon appétit!_
> 
> The quotes (aka Sherlock's memories) are actually dialogue from 'Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson' (1979), aka THE Victorian Husbands, when you ask me. And BBC Sherlock ("Dinner?" - "Starving") from 'ASiP'. The dialogue in the kitchen is mine. Not sure I can compete with the other's writers Johnlock banter & bickering, but I tried my best.
> 
> The chapter was partly beta read by pipmer; all remaining mistakes are my own (because, typically me, I changed some things on last notice). The opening paragraph I own partly a lovely chat with elwinglre.
> 
> Thanks for reading & coming along for this roadtrip trough the French countryside!


	6. Shower Sex, and so much more.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is back at the inn. It is night, and he misses John. Will he put in practise what he has learned over the day (and the night prior)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the final chapter of 'To the Ends of the Earth'! There will be a short epilogue up in the next days, and then it's over, our little trip to Burgundy (France). Never in a million years, I would have expected the reaction and readership my story has/had,... I'm still a bit overwhelmed. 
> 
> Thank you all so much.
> 
> Special thanks to my two betas, links & pipmer, and vulgarweed who suggested some scenes from 'TASH'. Now, it's time for shower sex, and some emotional mess, so basically, all you've been waiting for, right ;)
> 
> On y va!

The stairs to the showers are carved irregularly into stone. Sherlock’s muscles are so sore that every step hurts like hell.

Then, Sherlock is welcomed in a cave. Because Sherlock refuses to call it by any other name.

The door is out of wood, home built, decades old; like everything here. The door is creaking when Sherlock opens it. They are full of graffiti, deformed by steam and misuse that Sherlock does not want to deduce.

There is no heating. There are no mats to prevent slipping out on the bare, concrete floor. Sherlock can deduce from the traces that when there is a big storm, the showers are flooded. He is confident that there is a ghost story about a guest that drowned in the bathroom.

There is exactly one light bulb for the room with what the inn considers showers, and the light bulb is flickering alarmingly. When one stands inside the stalls, one cannot even see their own feet.

When Sherlock stands under the spray, the water pressure is strong thanks to the mountain surrounding the inn. Sadly, there is no regulation in use here, so the cascade is so hard that it almost hurts or nothing comes out. Further, the ceiling is so low that he can barely stand upright. If he wanted to shower with, let us say, five people, however, and they do not expect to get clean, that would have been possible because the stalls are wide. Sherlock stops his train of thought instantly.

Sherlock is not a religious man, but he is close to praying that he will not slip or drop his shower gel or worse.

 

* * *

 

Then Sherlock goes down to business.

To keep himself in the here-and-now, or, more accurately, to not overwhelm and freak him himself out, Sherlock goes into his mind palace, and brings up a particular scene from last night’s reading to the surface.

 

> It was after tea of a summer evening, and I was rolling in bed with my companion. He had been in a singularity romantic mood, and his lips had not departed my penis for the better part of an hour.
> 
> I lay back on the coverlet with my eyes closed, enthralled by the surging rapture of exquisite sensation. With his extreme perception and empathic abilities, Holmes seems to sense each nuance and subtle variation within me. I had remained half-hardened, creating a girth and length just sufficient to require his heightened expenditure of energies.
> 
> I pulled a pillow under my head and through a fluttering of lashes observed the semi-rigid projection that rose from my groins, the contrast of its ruby-violet to the pinkish-white of the lips as they stretched about the fleshy cylinder. Because my lovers' hair had tumbled across his brow, there was little I could see of his face, but I could hear the soft expressions of his satisfaction, the moaning sighs and an occasional deep suckling sound when his airtight contract was interrupted by the rapidity of his motions.
> 
> I was enveloped in searing warmth and moisture, debilitated by his demanding possession. Finally, I felt my energies father once again. My springy hardness projected into him, while the head of my cock struck repeatedly against the back of his throat.
> 
> He taunted me, purposely withheld his total absorption until I was quivering with anxious lust. My fingers fairly ached to seize his head and shove it fully down upon my loins. However, his restraint created a certain quality of expectation within me, generating anew that same, boiling arousal with which I had already answered him several times before. My testicles grew tautly against the base of my shaft, and my entire being trembled with fierce, lusting desire.
> 
> “Beautiful!” 
> 
> He mutter, leaving the sides of my quivering projection. His hot breath cascaded across the head and his tongue traced the underside clear to the base, where his lips closed about my sac and his rapid intake of breath pulled both testicles into the grasping inferno.
> 
> I found myself moaning and thrashing about beneath his onslaught, legs twisted against the weight of his chest and upper arms. I was imprisoned, in a sense, held firmly in place and subjected to the torturous, languid use he chose to make of me.
> 
> His lips returned to the crown, held there until he dropped full upon me and the searing wetness of his mouth enclosed my entire sex. His hands, so warm, so demanding, travelled sensuously across my midsection, sliding in a circular motion toward the rib cage. He seized my nipples and squeezed them at the same moment he raised his mouth and again dropped clear to the base of my shaft. I felt the crown slide through constructing membranes, violently penetrating his throat. I was quaking so badly I seemed on the verge of expiration - or explosion.
> 
> My emotional responses became so mingled it was difficult to separate or define them. The only clear imagine in my thoughts was the deep love that swollen anew with every lunging twist of his form on mine.
> 
> Finally, he brought me to the very pinnacle of exquisite sensation. I felt the desperate contractions within me; a deep, dark abyss begins to open… to draw me towards its gaping maw, to engulf me in its formless euphoria.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sits on the floor. His legs gave out. It was too much, too fast. He thought he could handle it, but it proved not to be the case. It takes a second until he realizes that the water streaming down his face is not from the showers alone but that it is indeed tears that mingle within.

He knows that he has get up and shut up the shower. The water has turned cold some time ago. First, he had not realized this either but now he is freezing. His muscles are sore, if it would be possible, he would say that his heart is sore as well.  

 

Later, he could not recall how he made it to his room. Fuzzily, he remembers two figures, shadows moving, voices far too loud for his poor mind, making him flinch and ache even more. He cannot be certain but he senses that the inn owner and her partner, the self-proclaimed “king of the kitchen”, had found him in the shower stalls and had saved him from drowning. How they had thought that something was amiss, and how they managed to drag him, an almost passed out adult male up all the stairs, put him into bed after at least donning him into a dressing gown, and all this without someone else spotting this, Sherlock does not know.

 

When he opens his eyes, blurry and bloodshot, hours, - or has it been minutes? - later, he finds himself not only in the safety of the room, but he also discovers a steaming hot chocolate and a piece of French Apple Tart on his nightstand. Next to a glass of water, lay an ibuprofen on a saucer that Sherlock gulps down immediately.

Sherlock is too wary, too sore, too everything to be impressed. (He will be, and even more, when hours later, he will learn that the action of those two women even slipped under his brother Mycroft’s radar.) Now, he practically inhales the pure delight of the rich, dark chocolate, and the freshly baked, sugary-sweet pastry.

 

With a minimum of energy back, he goes into his mind palace to search for a way out, or back, or something in between. A direction, a lifeline, a plan if not a solution, something that makes him continue his path.

 

* * *

 

To go to the ends of the earth, only to realize that you have to go further still.

 

That he had made a decision at the rooftop but that he had to renew his vow here, standing at another world ending, under another waterfall, for life, for home, for John.

Because back then, it had not really been his decision, oh, he decided to jump, of course, but it was more driven out of necessity, because of running out of time and options, because he trusted his intellect and his mental abilities more than he trusted John as a partner and friend. He did it because Moriarty forced his hand, because he thought of the crime solving as a game, and because he believed that being clever is all to life.

While being away, Sherlock might have realized his error. Oh, and the error was certainly not that Moriarty was indeed mad. The error was that he was terribly human, he has a heart, and oh, Moriarty made the best to burn it out of him.

However, only with coming here, to Burgundy, the final problem had really hit home. He had to renew his vow, and to go further still, and with it, to seal his fate.

 

To decide to go further still would change everything.

 

This is not a game anymore, not to outsmart Moriarty to prove you are clever or to distract from the sheer boredom of everyday life or for England.

It was John, his love, his life, and yes, all that it all entails.

After all, all roads start at, lead to, and end with John.

 

However, the truth is that he will maybe not make it out alive.

That he will not make it home, back to England, into John's arms.

 

Sherlock realized now that it is not the fall that hurts or kills but the landing.

When taking John into the equation, he might not be pleased with Sherlock faking his death, but even when he might forgive him, who knows if he returns his feelings?

He can maybe outsmart Moriarty’s men, but John is not a game.

 

Sherlock can deduce a killer’s motif, observe a potential suspect, or examine a crime scene, but all of his skills and natural talents are neither bulletproof, nor helping to determine if John returns his feelings. Oh, he did suspect that John was hitting on him at the beginning, but that been many months ago.

Since then, he might be a blogger, a partner, and someone to share a flat with, a good doctor, an ex-soldier and someone with a very helpful, very illegal handgun, but if he would be willing to share a life, the work, and a bed infinite with him? All Sherlock can hope is that they retired together to the countryside one day. That before, they will go down an aisle together and that John will say, “I do”, too.

The truth is that for the option to say “I love you, John” and to ask “Will you marry me, John” and to propose sex and all the other things, to cook together, to maybe bring him back to Burgundy, he has to say “Yes” to go further still.

 

That is the heart of it all, is it not?

 

So far, it had been the Western World, US, Europe, that sort of thing. He is going to spend some time in Asia soon (Tibet, Himalaya), but then, he knows it, he will have to face Russia, and in particular, Serbia.

Sherlock Holmes, even on his one-day-off, while roaming the countryside, playing the violin-for-a-day, and cooking some traditional French dish and toying with maybe indulging in a glass of ruby red Burgundy as a night cup later, is no idiot, he might be a fool in love, but he is Sherlock Holmes: Serbia is going to be hell.

 

He knows as much as the sun rises tomorrow, that he will receive new scars. New scars on his skin and below the surface, and some who will not treated immediately by his doctor.

He knows as much as the sun rises tomorrow, that unlike today when he had relished in his solitude and enjoy the remote locations with the lack of signal, that he will go to territories in which he would hope, plead and probably even beg for his brother as a landline and he will be remain unheard.

He knows as much as the sun rises tomorrow, that he might find his end in Serbia.

 

That all that will remain will be the story about a man called Sherlock Holmes who started out to fake his death and in the end was killed for real.

That his last words will be indeed forever “Goodbye, John”.

That John’s last memory is Sherlock Holmes putting his life to an end and that he could not save him.

 

John had wanted to save him, him who did not need saving back then but John who was unaware on the treat on his, Greg’s and Mrs Hudson’s life, but now the table are turned. Sherlock might need saving because now his life is in danger. John, Greg, Mrs Hudson, and yes, Molly, who Moriarty seemed to forgot in his scenario but Sherlock did not overlook, are safe.

 

Not John Watson is certainly in danger, Sherlock Holmes is.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was not a question, or it was one but one he did not know the answer before today: that he would go to the ends of the earth, and further still, and that he would do it for John a thousand times over, and that hopefully, John would do the same, but that he does not need to do it.

He never needed to do it, he could have ask John to join him in his game a long time ago, and Sherlock had asked him, over and over again, starting with “Do you want to see some more?”, but the all important ones, he and John had never addressed.

Those have to wait, a bit, not long, but maybe not tomorrow (but maybe tomorrow), because when John had answer “Oh God, yes”, why had Sherlock stopped? Why had he given his speech about “married to his work”? Why. Oh, he knows why (and he knew back then, too). However, this is all behind them now, a new world is ahead of them.

Sherlock vows, or actually, he does not need to, he just types a message to his brother, one, that bastard probably expected for 95 days, the one version of how to survive a fall, or more accurately, how to make a safe landing, or, in honour of today’s events, who would you have at your side when you already went to the ends of the earth but you have to go further still: “John.”

 

* * *

 

His brother is a smart man, and Sherlock can admit it tonight – but only because he had a lovely meal, were a bit sunburned from strolling through the countryside, and because he might have composed a song that he wants to play to his beloved soon – that Mycroft might be the smart one.

His older brother knows _immediately_ that it stands for more than one of their plans to dismantle Moriarty’s network. Sherlock is unsure how much Mycroft knows but when he receives as a reply “Congratulation”, he suspects that Mycroft indeed knows that he will be a best man soon.

 

Not tomorrow, even tomorrow would be good, but tomorrow he will be in Frankfurt and John will be there too, and together they will face the world, and that will be enough to going on, for now.

 

Burgundy lays behind him; the world waits for them.

Because it is always two of them, or, it will be again a couple of hours,

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.

 

tbc


	7. All's well that's end well.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All journeys end, but not all hearts are broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU all for joining me (& Sherlock & John) for this unexpected journey in Burgundy. 
> 
> This fanfiction is a love letter to those two men, as well as the rural, historical region of France. 
> 
> Without my two amazing beta readers at my side, this story would probably not been told (or, in a way that is not really understandable for an English reader ;)) Thank you so much, links(writing) & pipmer!
> 
> Then, a big shout out to my lovely fellowers on tumblr (a-different-equation.tumblr.com) who not only endured my spam of posts about 'To the Ends of the Earth', but also showered me with interest, inquiries and inspiring chats. Merci!
> 
> Now, it's time for one last visit: Johnlock in France.
> 
> Happy reading everyone!

**Burgundy (France). Present Day.**

It is a beautiful day. The sun is shining. The sky is blue, if there were clouds in the early morning, they are all gone now. It is around midday, warm but not hot, as it will be in some hours.

John had almost dragged his husband out of bed.

Oh, it had been lovely, and he had been tempted, after all, he was only a man and very much in love with the man lying next to him in bed, but now, a bit after ten o’clock, he insists. John had wanted to see a bit of this wild, rural country: Burgundy, in the heart of France, where Sherlock had brought him for their honeymoon.

It had surprised John that Sherlock had picked this region for their little gateway at first. He did not know what he had envisioned; on the other hand, he had not remotely thought it possible that they could not only walk hand-in-hand but also have matching rings on their fingers either. To hear that their destination was not some exclusive island, or some murder-mystery-holiday, or, at least, the so-called city of love, Paris but Burgundy was not that of a surprise, compared to this.

And in the end of the day: They are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, one leads, the other follows. And if all roads lead to Burgundy, then so be it.

 

* * *

 

John’s first attempt to get him to lead the way was sidetracked by Sherlock’s story about the more explicit details of his journey to Burgundy. (“Sex in a shower that is carved into a stone? You’re leading me on, Sherlock.” “Oh, no, John, should I show you…”). After the second round of sex for today, and who would have thought that men of their age would be able to do it, but being with Sherlock, being loved and loving in return, had maybe not turn them young again but recalled them to life.

Instead of facing the world, Sherlock had wanted to stay in bed, relish in the feeling of home, of his love, John at his side.

However, John had been hungry and even Sherlock had been peckish after their activities, so Sherlock suggested the inn owner could bring the meals to their room. Apparently, the owner is a lesbian and her partner is the chef, how he deduced this John is not sure, but what he does know is that he does not want some stranger, let them be queer women or not, walking on them.

“That’s what bothers you?”

“What else?”

“That it is not their job, John?”

“Oh, yes, that too. Eh, breakfast, Sherlock? Croissant? I think I saw a bakery in town.”

Then, Sherlock had revealed that the owner of the inn got the money to buy it by - let us say questionable - freelancing jobs.

“She's a killer for hire?”

“Was, John. She is a retired assassin. And if I were you, I would keep your voice down; after all, one never can know for sure if such people truly retire…”

“Oh, shut it, Sherlock. How do you know this? No, first, why…?”

“Why, what, John?”

“Why did she retire… oh, don't tell me, your brother.”

“Correct answer for the wrong question, John. You are learning. Now all we have to match it better and soon…”

“Sherlock!”

“She retired because she fell in love with her partner, the chef, obviously, John. And they retired here, after all, who would suspect an ex-assassin and an ex-agent, and from different countries, to further complicate things, to end up in Burgundy? Quite elegant. Mycroft was certainly impressed when he came to pick me up.”

“Pick you up?”

“How do you think I end up meeting you in Frankfurt all cleaned up, in a suit and wearing my Belstaff?”

“Dunno. Public Transport?”

“Seriously, John?”

 

* * *

 

Yesterday, Sherlock had not driven them to Dijon, Beaune or Autun. There was no wine tasting, or a guided tour through the famous museums, not even a hiking or bike tour through the hills.

Instead, on their first day, they had walked from Lacanche over Sevre to St. Pierre-en-Vaux. The old church was beautiful but it was certainly not one of the many to be found on countless postcards and social media, neither Cluny nor Taizé.

When they finally stood in front of it, John thought only a man like Sherlock Holmes could find it. You don’t need to be religious but you need to be open-minded, to have courage to leave the main path, to not follow the major lead but to go your own way.

 

* * *

 

Then, they had visited ‘ _Le bout du Monde_ ’, and out of a sudden, there was a violin in Sherlock’s hand, and he played their song.

Their song, the one he dedicated to him on their wedding day, the one he taught him to dance with curtains wide open in 221B, a beautiful waltz, a song he revealed yesterday to have composed here, on this exact spot, while he was “away”.

There were tears in Sherlock’s eyes, and John realized that his eyes were wet too. They were both not overly emotional, after all, they were two middle-aged British males, but they learned their lesson: talking is good sometimes.

Therefore, he had taken the violin carefully out of his husband's hand, had wrapped him into a tight hug until their tears had subsided, and then they had sat down in the grass. The grass was warm from the sunlight, and a bit humid from the almost dried up waterfall.

They had talked.

Sherlock could not face him, so he had spooned behind him. John might be smaller, looking almost tiny compared to his giraffe with the gorgeous long, swan like neck, but he could shield and protect his love, and when he needs a solid, compact ex-soldier, who offers his hands as a landline and doesn’t let go when it gets tough and he almost crashes down, only offers a warm presence, then he will do it.

 

When Sherlock had ended his tale from the past, he had led go off John’s hand and had sat up. He had go to the almost dried waterfall and had turned back to him. John had followed him as he have always done since the day Sherlock had come home.

Together, they stood there, surrounded by massive mountains.

Protected by the force of nature, and their love.

 

“We don’t have any more secrets now”, Sherlock had said.

Then, he had stepped away from the wall.

 

They kissed.

And kissed.

And kissed some more.

 

"I'm happy, John," he had said, finally, with wonder in his voice.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, John had seen the country with new eyes.

Oh, he had fallen in love with Burgundy the moment he had set eyes on it. Nevertheless, to fall in love is not being in love.

Love needs time, it is a process; now, the place is transformed.

This land has saved his husband, John knows that now.

 

Without the day-off, the one day, he might not have survived it.

He might have been out alive, but he would have been dead inside.

 

Living is more than breathing, walking, talking; here, he can see it now, he learned that there is more to life, and more to see, to touch, to listen, to taste, to smell, and yes, to share and to show.

 

* * *

 

As if Sherlock had heard John's inner thoughts, he had shouted, “Come on, John, quick…” and the, “if you love me” went unsaid but never misunderstood.

 

Of all places, to put it into practise, John would admit that, he never envisioned a kitchen in a common house.

Because this is where Sherlock had driven them with their “borrowed” car from some local woman that apparently was the personification of _Laissez-faire_ or _Marianne_ (which might be her real name; John is not sure if Sherlock is leading him on, and instead the car is secretly from Mycroft instead).

When he had pointed out all of this, Sherlock’s eyes had been lighten up with delight and mischief and fondness and nostalgia and so many more reactions that maybe only a man like Sherlock Holmes’ can identify properly and but surely are always directed at him: “You see, but you don’t observe, John…”

 

Then his madman of a husband had started a lecture about local kitchen manufacturer, and while doing so had put ingredients for a dish on the kitchen ranges: meat, onions, mustard, some herbs that John cannot identify baguette and two bottles of Burgundy wine. Salt and pepper are to be found in the kitchen, just like some pots and pans, knives, and what else Sherlock turned up while continue to talk about history and kitchen making and food being more than food.

It had been a bit dazzling, and brilliant, and so _his_ Sherlock.

 

"From the same woman who taught me to cook the dish we're going to make tonight, John: Marianne."

"Who? What?"

“You are wondering from where I got all the information and the ingredients from. Probably you are searching for a title for a future blog post already: 'The curious incident of the cooking during night-time', oh John, you're so predictable. Thank God, I love you. Anyway, Marianne's husband works for ' _Lacanche_ ', and she thought after I have burned myself one time to often that I need to see the work that went into it, so I would value its worth more, and hopefully would stop doing it. After all, the water bill was alarmingly.”

“The...water bill…?”

“She has a special sense of humour, you’ll see.”

“Oh, she’s still around? We’re going to meet her?”

“I don’t want to but she insisted. Please, remember me, to let her never ever meet Mrs Hudson. It would be unbearable.”

“Oh… now, I am curious.”

“Tomorrow, John, we’ve got plans tonight.”

“Oh, we do? What do we plan, love?”

“Not going to tell you. Now, chop, chop. We don’t have all night.”

“It is one of the blow job scenes from the book, right? Oh, you are blushing. I am correct. Which one is it...?“

„Focus, John. First, one has to chop the onions for authentic _Bœuf bourguignon_.“

 

* * *

 

Today, they go to the vineyards.

 

Hand-in-hand.

Matching smiles on their faces.

No hiding, no denial.

Two men in love.

 

And the earth moves still.

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo... lots of references - and not only to chapters prior - here's a list:
> 
> \- you could read the inn owner and the chef as incarnation of Mary Morstan and Sebastian Moran. My beta links interpret it as such. Or, a genderbent version of 'THOB'. Or, you know, the fix-it of SHERLOCK because damn, female (queer) characters weren't Moftiss strong suit.
> 
> \- 'The curious incident of the cooking during the night-time' AKA one of the most iconic deductions of Sherlock Holmes in canon: in 'Silver Blaze', he mentions 'The Curious Incident of the Dog during the night-time'.
> 
> \- the end scene at 'Le Bout du Monde' is - once again - from CMBYN. 
> 
> \- vineyards are typical for the region. However, to let it end with Johnlock walking hand-in-hand... that inspiration came from tumblr fellower 'somewhereinmalta' who put the lovely image in my head, and from this found its way into the text. Originally, it should end with "their song" in 'Le bout du monde'. Now, it's to new beginnings, - and therefore, new places.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, 'mille grazie', 'merci', 'tak' & 'vielen Dank' to everyone who read, shared, liked, reblogged, left a kudo or even wrote a comment. 
> 
> Thanks for joining me, and Johnlock, for this unexpected journey through the rural heart of Burgundy (France).

**Author's Note:**

> Original written during BBC SHERLOCK season 2 hiatus and posted under another username on an another fan archive; upload on my tumblr (a-different-equation.tumblr.com) in early 2017; now - finally - on Ao3 as a OS (ca. 4k). Major editing - THANKS to my marvellous betas, pipmer & linkswriting- in early 2018, NOW - at last - COMPLETE AND FINISHED as a multi chapter fanficton (ca. 15k).
> 
> THANK YOU ALL FOR COMING ALONG FOR THE JOURNEY!!!
> 
> Comments, kudos etc. are always appreaciated. Thanks & merci for reading :)


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